Let's talk about how you got started in this whole music thing.
It really started when I went to Macalester College [St. Paul, MN] in the late '60s. I was in a little rock band at the time called Mushroom. Mushroom was aptly named back in the '60s, 'cause we were all good practicing hippies. I didn't take music in college, but I would go over to the school's practice places because they had Steinway uprights. Around that time I met Steve [Keys] and Boz [Metzdorf] at 1038 Selby Ave. — it was the second floor of a house; it was basically a crash pad/music pad, and everyone would come over and listen to music, talk about music and smoke about music. There was a guy name Mikey, and Mikey wanted to put some money into our band. We then had the ability to work in a professional studio with a professional studio drummer and I said, "No. We shouldn't do it that way." I felt we should actually become a real band and record in this guy's house that we knew, kind of like The Band's album Music from Big Pink and Dylan's Basement Tapes. That seemed like a cool way to go. So we recorded with a guy named John Tuttle in a basement in suburban Minneapolis, over the course of a few months. That became the start of recording [for me]. We recorded our album in 1972, and I got the band to move to Colorado and live in mountain cabins. It was peace, love and rock 'n' roll for a while. I had the opportunity to become the maintenance guy/carpenter at Caribou Ranch. It was a huge studio that James Guercio, who managed Chicago, built.
So what did you do at Caribou Ranch?
Well, I couldn't take the gig because we only had one car, a truck named "Bummer." My wife, Georgia, was going back to school, so real life got in the way. I really wanted to, but my relationship was stronger than my desire to do that. I became a carpenter because I wasn't making money playing music — it allowed us to put food on the table. We moved back to Minnesota in '76, right when Georgia finished her undergrad. By '78 Boz had found someone who wanted to put some money up for him to do a record. He hooked up with Mike Sullivan, who became my eventual mentor. I showed up to play keyboards and sing background [vocals] on Boz's record. Mike and I got to know each other, and I had carpentry skills, so I bartered Mike for that. There was a federal job training program that I was able to get involved in as a recording engineer, and the federal government helped pay for an internship for me at Mike's studio, which had a Neotek console, great mics and a 1" Scully 8-track. We did a lot of advertising work at Sullivan Sound, and I did a ton of sessions as a voice-over engineer. In 1985 Georgia graduated from medical school and finally, with her residency, we had a real income instead of my "pieced-together-wear-a-lot-of-hats" income. I took out a loan for $10,000 in 1985, and that bought me an AKAI MG-1212, which had a mixer and some weird Beta [tape] 12-track format — that was $5,500 right there. I bought an AKG 414 — I think it was $550. I had an [UA] 1176. My mics also included an [Electro-Voice] RE20 and a [Shure SM]57.
So the idea was to start a commercial studio?
Well, to do my own [records] and also have clients. I started an outfit called the Composers' Workshop, and started doing soundtracks. The early compositions that I completed with Composers' Workshop caught the ear of Al Bergamo, the head of a new label that was started up by K-TEL in Minneapolis, called Nouveau. Al was one of the heavies at MCA records back in the '70s and '80s. Just when my Cool Saturdays LP was breaking, I started at Hennepin Technical College as a full time recording school guy, so I couldn't go on tour. I had a family, I had a mortgage, I wanted to stay married and economically it wouldn't have made sense. But the record did well, well enough. Al got in a tiff with the owner and the next guy in said, "I hate all this stuff" [laughs] and all of a sudden 15 artists lost their deals in one day.
You've been married how long?
Since 1971. She's been there for me and I've been there for her. I was Mr. Mom while she was going to school. I took the kids to daycare, went to work at the studio, picked up the kids from daycare, took a nap and then went to a gig. Luckily we both have the same values and view of marriage and raising a family. She's really good with money — she's a physician and I'm a hippie musician teacher — and I like gear. [laughs] For her part, she saw and understood the innate need in me to make music and supported that. I saw her innate need to do her thing. It was a conscious thing about supporting each other's passions. I've been fortunate to have that relationship.
In all those things that are going on in your life, how do you maintain balance?
Externally it appears that I do, but there's this inner struggle of trying to get my own art done in an environment where I have to make money. Things need be kind of compartmentalized. If there's something going on with my day job, then I must be there. But I'm constantly carving out time to do my own creativity — to do my own thing. Fortunately, I have some flexibility at work so I can sometimes stay home in the morning and write a song. You've gotta grab a song when it happens, otherwise it will just kinda float by.
So you can take your time, when you have time.
The world is not exactly demanding the next Tommy Wiggins' record! [laughs] Here's the arc of an album project: you write the songs, you get everybody together and record, mix and master the record — for me that's a good couple years. Then you get the manufacturing done, rehearse the band, and play some shows for little or no money. Then you spend a whole bunch more money trying to get airplay, sink more thousands of dollars into the project — and finally you get so disgusted with the business you say, "Fuck this, I'm just gonna go back and write songs." Then after a while you forget the pain you went through and you repeat the process! [laughs] You'd better be doing it for the right reasons after beating yourself against the wall. That's the life of the independent musician/artist/songwriter. We're not plumbers — not everybody needs us.
You've been around enough that you could be a card-carrying, jaded asshole. Why aren't you?
There's music in my DNA. I am here to make music. Instead of becoming jaded I've just become bruised, and now I know how to duck better. I've got some melody, I've got some chords, I come downstairs and make music. That I can control. I can't control how the world perceives my music, how many records I sell or don't sell. But I can control how the art sounds and really work the craft.
How long have you been involved in helping educate others in the art of recording?
Since the early '80s. I was living in St. Paul and there was a gentleman, Ben James, who was the coordinator of a high school recording program. So I said, "Hey, I'll trade you teaching time for recording time" and he went, "Yeah, that sounds like a great idea." I knew about recording and he knew about the teaching. He had gotten a Tangent board and a 1" 8- track and he was a little out of his element. I was the guy who wanted to learn [how to] educate and had all the technical stuff. So I saw how he made up lesson plans, projects and things like that. There was really no such thing as a recording school unless you were in N.Y. or L.A. Audio recording as an academic discipline has only been around during our lifetimes. We pitched it to the state of Minnesota and eventually [they] said, "Yes." Hennepin Technical College [HTC] said, "We'd like a program like that." Ben then realized that this was not the job for him, but all along we were building a job for me.
You run a recording program now at another community college in Cleveland, Ohio?
Yes. Cuyahoga Community College is the second or third largest community college in the U.S. I'm kind of the Johnny Appleseed of recording schools. [laughs]
Compare the difference in students of 20 years ago and the students of today. What are they looking for in an education now, as compared to then?
There is absolutely no change. Ninety-five percent of the students have no clue why they are there, other than they like music. It's never changed. The same percentage of parents send their kids to recording school as a last resort for "Johnny's" education as they did 20 years ago.
If you had one thing to say to anyone in recording schools or thinking about going to one, what would that statement be?
Motivated people don't need schools. But schools are where relationships, community and networking happen — as well as the sharing of ideas, skills and dreams. You can do it by yourself down in your basement, but you can probably learn faster in a school because we have a prescribed timetable. Theory without practice is stupid, practice without theory is inefficient. That's my whole mantra. We have one full time professor, a handful of full time staff and a dozen different part time professors. Everyone has had decades of experience in the recording business. Our staff is comprised of musicians and they each have their own particular expertise and knowledge to share — that's why they are there — to share.
But you're still a writer/musician/ artist. How many albums have you released on your own?
I've finished ten CDs under my name.
Do you do pre-production for your stuff?
Pre-production is for wussies.
Um, okay.
I don't mean that in a disparaging way. What I'm really saying is demos are for wussies. If you're going to put your ass on the line onto that tape — there's no futzing. My job as a producer is to cast the song; meaning getting the right players who I know are going to interpret it a certain way, and then you're a dope if you don't let people develop their own parts within that. The reason I got into recording in the first place is because of the collaborative experience of a rhythm section. I'm interested in the process of people together who are searching for the best way to interpret the song with the tools they individually have.
So even though you have your own studio you keep personal sessions efficient?
